


Days Gone By

by jacksqueen16



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade 2015 Winter Challenge [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Cas is a thoughtful motherfucker, Charlie is still alive because reasons, Christmas, Dean feels sorry for himself, Established Relationship, Foreplay, Holidays, M/M, Make up sex, NYE - Freeform, New Year’s Eve, Porn, Rimming, Sam ships Destiel, Secret Santa, Smut, Top!Cas, bottom!Dean, happy new year, red satin boxers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:37:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5580598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksqueen16/pseuds/jacksqueen16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam gets Cas for Secret Santa, Cas gets Dean, and Dean has a thing called "feelings."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days Gone By

**Author's Note:**

> The title is inspired by the traditional Scottish ballad “Auld Lang Syne,” which roughly means “long, long ago” or “days gone by.” Many of us in the English speaking world are familiar with this song, which is typically sung at Christmas or at midnight on New Year’s Eve. The melody is so bittersweet that I thought it went well with the overall feeling of this fic. While the lyrics we are familiar with were both collected and written by the famed poet Robert Burns, I’ve chosen to include some of the words in Irish Gaelic instead. 
> 
> This story takes place one year after “Santa Baby,” but you don’t need to have read that fic for this one to make sense. All you need to know is that Dean and Cas have an appreciation for satin.

The whole “Secret Santa” thing is Charlie’s idea.

She’s spending Christmas with them this year, and Dean has to admit that she’s brought an extra element of cheerfulness to the Men of Letters bunker. But he doesn’t like party games, let alone Secret Santa. The whole concept sounds like something right out of an episode of “The Office,” and he wants no part in it.

Especially when he doesn’t even get Cas when they draw names out of a hat.

He has no idea who has his name, and that makes him nervous. He considers buying a gift for Cas anyway, because they’re “boyfriends” now, and isn’t that what “boyfriends” do? They’ve been together for over a year, partners in every way, and even though Dean hates labels, he still feels bad when Cas tells him not to get him a gift. “This ritual is important to Charlie,” Cas says when Dean complains. “We will do it the way she says. No extra presents.”

In the end, Dean orders Cas a set of those Agatha Christie books he’s grown so fond of in addition to the deluxe box set of _Battlestar Galactica_ (complete with cylon head) for Charlie. He’s not really good at giving gifts, but he knows that it’s something she doesn’t have in her collection. As for Cas...well, he figures he can give him the present on the sly, maybe a few days after Christmas.

Even though Dean and Sam are used to exchanging—albeit sparse—gifts on Christmas Day (that is, on the Christmases when they aren’t killing something or other), Charlie announces that they’ll be doing Secret Santa on Christmas Eve. She gets such a hopeful look on her face that Dean doesn’t argue. He figures it’s probably a family thing, and he understands. He doesn’t know who Charlie’s been spending Christmases with the last few years. Maybe her LARP friends? But he doesn’t ask, and she never volunteers the information. He understands that, too. So on December 24, he helps her finish decorating while Cas and Sam cook dinner, and lets her dictate how they’ll celebrate.

They eat an enormous meal of fondue, both savory and sweet, before sitting down to open presents. Dean is full and content, and as Cas settles next to him on the ancient sofa, he tries very hard not to care who his Secret Santa is. _The only thing that could make this better is a beer._ And when Sam hands him a cold one, a satisfied warmth spreads through his chest.

Charlie goes first, giving Sam a subscription to something called the “OED” and a membership to the Encyclopedia Britannica. When Sam protests and says it’s too much, Charlie laughs. “I’m a hacker, remember? These are lifetime subscriptions, as far as their computers are concerned.”

Dean goes next, and the look on Charlie’s face when she sees the cylon head is totally worth the money. Sam remarks that he’s only ever seen the old series, and not the reboot, which prompts a nerd-filled discussion of worthy remakes. Charlie schools him on the merits of shipping Helo and Sharon. Even Cas joins in with his thoughts on the new _Star Trek_. Dean knows that being able to discuss human things on equal footing is important to Cas, so he shuts away his jokes and teasing and basks in the pop culture references.

Sam insists on going next, and hands Cas a sleek box covered in silver wrapping paper. Cas unwraps the parcel carefully, not tearing any of the paper, before peeking inside. He lets out a significantly un-Cas squeak, and closes the box before Dean can see what it is. “Uh, Cas?” Dean asks, pulling the paper out of the way.

“Thank you for your thoughtful gift, Sam,” Cas says, his face turning an interesting shade of red. “It is most appreciated.” He moves the box to the side, away from Dean.

“What is it?” Charlie smirks.

“I’m next,” Cas ignores her as he places a large, heavy, oblong box next to Dean. “Merry Christmas.”

“C’mon Cas, everybody shared what they got. What did Sammy get you?” Dean tries to reach around Cas to grab the mysterious gift, but it’s suddenly gone. “Freaking angel powers,” he mutters under his breath.

Cas looks at him, and there’s just enough urgency in his eyes to make Dean feel a little bad. “Please,” he says. “Not now.”

Dean glances at Sam, who still has a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. He sighs, and pulls the big box closer. He rips the paper off, because that’s what wrapping paper is fucking for, and besides, it makes him feel like a kid again. But when he opens the box, he pauses. “Is that a—”

“Cylinder head,” Cas says. “Yes.”

“I know what it is,” Dean says, easing the head out of the box. “How did you—”

“I remembered you mentioning this cylinder head on that automotive website. You said that Baby deserved something like that. I may not know much about cars, but I do know that the engine is the heart of an automobile and it’s important to keep it clean and healthy and running, and since your own heart is—well, since you said—”

Dean puts a hand on Cas’s neck, fingers curling into his hair. “I remember,” he whispers.

How could he forget? It had been a hushed conversation, under the covers, after a day when Dean had been tinkering with Baby’s engine. _“Sometimes I feel like a car after a good tune-up. Having you...here...it’s like my heart has new spark plugs and fuel filters. You make me better.”_

“Thank you,” he says now, loud enough for the others to hear. “Just what I wanted.”

Cas pecks him on the lips in a strange show of public affection, and Charlie laughs and claps her hands, and Sam opens another beer, and Dean forgets about the mysterious gift his brother gave his boyfriend.

Instead, his mind is full of the cylinder head and Cas’s thoughtfulness, and when he looks up prices on eBay and realizes how much money Cas spent, he’s embarrassed at the thought of giving Cas the inexpensive set of mystery novels. This is why he hates giving gifts, he thinks. This is why Secret Santa was a bad idea, he tells himself as he slams his laptop closed. _In the end, you always feels like an idiot because you suck at relationships. You suck at being normal_ , says the voice in his head. The happiness at Cas’s kind and meaningful gift gives way to an all-too-familiar bitterness.

He stays resolutely in his funk until the end of December. He keeps himself busy by working on Baby, away from the others. They sense his bad temper, and leave him alone for the most part. Cas curls up next to him at night, but doesn’t push him. The angel may not be so great at certain human interactions, but he’s learned how to read Dean’s moods. Dean doesn’t know how much of it is practice and how much of it is Grace, but he’s too sulky to ask questions.

The champagne and food and atmosphere of New Year’s Eve help a little bit, but he can’t bring himself to be too perky. Everyone will know he doesn’t really feel it, and he doesn’t want to be fake. He sits quietly, drinking in front of the television, until he declares he’s too old to stay up until midnight.

He’s about to close the door to the bedroom he shares with Cas when the angel grabs his hand. “Dean…”

“It’s okay, Cas. You can go hang out with them.” Dean pulls away.

Castiel’s face falls further. “Dean, this has got to stop.”

“What has to stop? I’m just tired.” Dean starts to change for bed, and Cas closes the bedroom door.  

“Then you’ve been _tired_ ever since we exchanged gifts. Dean, did you not like the cylinder head?”

Dean throws his shirt on the floor. “Of course I liked it. What makes you think I didn’t?”

Cas licks his lips. “Dean. You haven’t been yourself for days.”

Dean sighs. “I don’t know, okay? The whole Secret Santa thing made Christmas weird. I don’t really like exchanging gifts.”

“But we have given each other presents in the past.” Cas’s blue eyes feel like they’re boring holes in Dean’s head as the angel steps closer. “What changed?”

“Yeah, but you’ve never given me something worth $800, while I got you shit in return,” Dean snaps. He turns toward the desk and pulls out the Agatha Christie books from the bottom drawer. Tossing them on the bed, he crosses his arms. “There. That’s what I got you. Merry fucking Christmas.”

Cas glances at the books, but makes no move to touch them. “So that’s what this is about. The money.”

“Jesus Christ, Cas, no it’s not!” Dean knows his voice is too loud, knows that Charlie and Sam can probably hear them, but he doesn’t care. “Yes, the cylinder head was expensive, but it’s not _just_ the money, okay? Your gift was fucking significant. You obviously put thought and effort into buying that for me, and meanwhile, I’m godawful at doing the same for you.”

“That isn’t the point of Secret Santa, Dean.” Cas’s hands flex, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself during a fight. “You did buy a meaningful gift for Charlie. And these…” he picks up the box set, running his fingers down the spines. “These are meaningful, too. Every time I read one of these, I will know that you thought of me.”

Dean’s hands fall to his sides. “It isn’t the same. You had that whole engine/heart analogy, and I—” the words die on his lips and he suddenly feels exposed. “I had Amazon.”

Cas’s eyes turn soft, and he sets the books down. “It isn’t a competition, Dean. I bought the part for you because I knew you needed it. I knew you would like it. And...I love you. I don’t need anything in return, except to know that you feel the same about me.”

Dean swallows the lump in his throat. “You know I do.”

“Then please. Can we put this behind us? Sam will give us hell if we enter the New Year with his so-called _bad vibes_.” Cas smiles, looking so earnest, that Dean feels his petulant anger and self-doubt begin to melt away.

“Fine,” he says, trying to keep his voice neutral. He knows he’s been acting childish, and all at once, the thought of Cas knowing the depth of his insecurities is humiliating. “Whatever. Consider it forgotten.”

He reaches for his sweatpants, but is stilled by the touch of Castiel’s hand on his shoulder, the spot where the handprint was burned into his flesh so many years ago. “You still think you do not deserve this life,” Cas says. It isn’t a question.

Dean’s silence is deafening. He drops the sweatpants, and turns toward Castiel’s embrace. He wants to run and hide, because not once has he ever felt like the Righteous Man Cas thinks he is. But Cas’s arms are warm and inviting, and he conceals his face against the angel’s neck.

“Can we not do this now?” he whispers.

Cas shifts, and the fibers of his sweater feel strange against Dean’s bare skin. “We don’t have to do this now,” Cas agrees. “Will you be all right?”

Dean nods. “Yeah. I guess.” He pauses. “Just...one last thing.”

“Anything.”

“What did Sam give you?”

Cas chuckles low in his throat, pulling out of their embrace. “I knew you wouldn’t forget that forever. I was going to share it with you when we were alone…”

Dean shakes his head. “But I was being an asshole. I know. I’m sorry for all that. I um...I hope I didn’t ruin your Christmas. I know you love this crazy holiday.”

Cas runs a finger along Dean’s jaw line, his eyes bright. “If you want to see Sam’s gift, you’ll have to undress me.”

His voice is low and gruff, and Dean feels a tightness unspool in his chest. This, this is familiar. Emotions and talking about feelings are strange and uncomfortable. But this, he knows how to do. He starts with Cas’s sweater, unbuttoning and pulling, and gets both it and the shirt beneath on the floor in short order. He leans in to kiss Cas before undoing the other man’s pants, because _fucking hell, when was the last time we kissed?_

When he pulls Cas’s pants down, he starts to laugh so hard that he sits down on the bed to keep from falling over. Castiel keeps a straight face as he finishes undressing, standing there in his own bespoke pair of red satin boxers emblazoned with the words IF WEARER IS LOST, RETURN TO DEAN WINCHESTER.

“That’s fucking awesome,” Dean says as his laughter dies down. He pulls off his own socks and pants before removing his black boxer briefs. His erection is beginning to stir, thickening slowly at the thought of fantastic makeup sex. He takes his cock in hand, giving himself a few preliminary strokes. “Why did that embarrass you so much? It’s just a gag gift.”

Cas stands between Dean’s open legs, his fingers tracing lips and cheekbones. “Because it’s true. I’m yours as much as you are mine.”

Dean’s breath hitches and he pulls Cas down for a searing kiss. “Mine,” he mutters against Cas’s lips. “Yes, you’re mine.”

They tumble down onto the mattress, a tangle of limbs and smothering kisses. Cas latches onto one of Dean’s nipples, his tongue rough and stroking. Dean gasps and flips them over, pinning the angel down. He knows that Cas is stronger than him—that he can have his way with him if he pleases, and Dean would be powerless against him. But the warrior lets Dean hold him down, and the Winchester lets the trust and love behind the gesture flood through him. _Let me do this for you_ is in the kiss he bestows to Castiel’s lips. Each nibble on his throat is an unspoken apology. When he’s reaches Cas’s iliac crest, the angel is quivering under his ministrations and expressions of regret.  

“Dean, please,” Cas begs, weaving his hands into Dean’s short hair and tugging. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

He lets Cas roll them over so that Dean is face down and comfortable in a veritable fortress of pillows. Cas removes the satin boxers before running his mouth across Dean’s back, over his ass, slipping his tongue into his crease. With each lap of the angel’s tongue against his aching hole, Dean swears he hears Cas’s voice somewhere in his head. _You are not alone_ . When Cas grabs their bottle of lube and slowly inserts two slick fingers, he hears _You are worthy_.

By the time he’s prepared, tears are running down his cheeks. He feels the blunt head of Cas’s cock against him, but the angel presses a kiss to the back of his neck instead. “Dean?”

“Please, Cas. Please,” he cries, or he thinks he cries. He isn’t sure what is spoken or unspoken anymore, but it doesn’t matter. Cas is suddenly deep inside him, where no one else has ever been, and he feels whole. Bucking back against Cas, they establish a quick, brutal rhythm that seems at odds with their slow foreplay. Before long, Dean begins to feel a tingling in his toes and at the base of his cock where it rubs against the sheets with each thrust. “Cas,” he whimpers.

 _An coir sean luchd-eolais dhol a beachd, 'S gun chumnhn' orra bhith ann?_ says Cas’s voice in his head. He knows it isn’t Enochian, but before he can wonder further, stars explode behind his eyes and he’s coming so hard that his thighs are trembling and he almost blacks out for a moment.  

“An coir seann luchd-eolis dhol a beachd, 'S na laithean a bha ann?” he hears behind him as Cas grunts, hands grasping his hips harder and harder until the angel comes undone.

They collapse in a sweaty mess, and Dean lets the cool pillowcase soothe the redness in his cheeks. He stays face down, letting Cas covertly clean them up. He wipes the remnants of any weeping away before Cas can see, even though he knows Cas felt each tear as though it were his own. The angel comes back to bed, curling up against Dean’s back. A gentle kiss is pressed against the curve of Dean’s spine.

“Happy New Year, Dean.”

**Author's Note:**

> I owe this whole story to my darling Dear Collectress. She provided the trope, the engine/heart analogy, and is a pretty constant source of inspiration. Happy New Year, cuz.


End file.
